We were driving 50 miles to deliver a book of poems to an 83-year-old sheep farmer.
"So this man," I said, "this farmer we are visiting, is he also a poet?"
"No, he is not a poet," said Guðný, "he is a farmer."
She was driving the car.
"I mean, he would not use that word," she said. "He would not say poet. He would not do that."
She kept driving.
"But he is, you know. He is. It is in his soul."